Heaven bent
by Ka.Ra.Ea
Summary: Hell and rescue one shot. Pre-slash sort of. Dean watches as the angels battle nearby; barely a mile away. His shattered soul barely registers it. He's so used to every rescue scenario by now, used to revive any spark of hope he still felt before it was cruelly ripped away.


_This is my first Supernatural fic and it's quite daunting with so many talented writers already writing in the category, but this has been scratching at the inside of my skull for days and I figured I may as well publish if I was going to write it._

_Please be kind!_

_Warnings: Non-explicit torture scenes and disturbing themes. Kind of dark fluff. Was written as slash but not meant to be properly AU so can be either pre-slash or friendship. M to be safe with the torture stuff.  
_

_Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural and probably never will  
_

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Dean watches as the angels battle nearby; barely a mile away. His shattered soul barely registers it. He's so used to every rescue scenario by now, used to revive any spark of hope he still felt before it was cruelly ripped away.

He turns back to the wrack, knife in hand. For some reason it's his favourite. It's so clean, so sharp. He has so much control with a blade, possibly coming from a familiarity in life. He could trace faint patterns, tickling and light, trailing faint red lines that didn't break the skin and coaxing scared whimpers that fill him with a feeling of absolute power; or he could delve deep, releasing torrents of blood and harsh, inhuman screams that he sometimes echoes with his own.

His work for the day was almost done. Not much more to do with this one. His face gazes dispassionately down at his victim, though even through the varying stages of his mental state in hell that is one thing he has never been. Passion is the one thing he has left. Though even that is slipping away fast.

The tip of his knife barely touches skin, he's too busy looking at what he's already done. Revulsion rises in his throat; the one ill effect that he never manages to squash, even after all this time. It's not directed at the gory mess in front of him or the guttural, pained moans that still occasionally emanate from the throat that he never touches. It's at himself. It's gone past being disgusted at his actions or his weakness or anything that has a name; it's a low self loathing at everything he ever was, is or will be.

The thing in front of him; it can no longer be called a soul; revives enough to murmur a few choice insults. A few moments ago it was flattery, pleading. This is better.

He never touches the throat, the mouth, the vocal chords. He wants to hear everything his victim utters; every insult, every plea, every threat, every attempt at inducing sympathy, guilt, fear or mercy. He's not sure if he enjoys it or hates it, but he can never bring himself to take away that reminder if what he is, what he's doing.

He hears a voice, if it can be called that, call his name and he looks around with a slight frown. No one has used his full name since his first year here; Alastair's goal was to take everything away from him, and the name Winchester held too much for him to keep; a link to his family, his pride in it's infamy in the hunter world, a sense of identity.

"Dean." Alastair's voice calls, drawing him back to the task at hand. He needn't say more. It means he has to continue. But he hesitates.

The name Winchester is still ringing in his ears, tall and strong and everything he admired about his father rolled into a word. He wonders how long his Dad held out, how many years before he got himself off the wrack. If he ever did. He doesn't know if he'd prefer to think his father broke before him or never broke at all.

The voice rings out again. This time he doesn't turn towards it, but he does stiffen. It's closer now.

Alastair notices. He says nothing, just gestures towards the wrack that Dean himself occupied before he traded in his role. If Dean won't finish this, then it's time to remind him why he started.

The thought of disobeying doesn't even occur.

He's halfway through relearning his lesson when he hears the voice that called his name close by. It's not saying his name any more. It's making threats. Ones that every voice makes when strapped to one of Alastair's wracks.

His lesson stops abruptly as his teacher gives a pleased chuckle. Dean finds that he no longer hates that chuckle like he did at first; now it's association isn't to pain but to relief. He hears that chuckle when Alastair is pleased with his progress.

The next time he's offered the blade, he already knows who his next learning partner is going to be.

He takes it anyway. Chances are it isn't really what he thought it was. Angel's didn't exist, and even if they did, why would they come to get him? It will just be another soul or tortured mockery of one, used in the latest illusion.

He steps up to the wrack, already choosing which knife, contemplating what method he will use today, what he will start with.

"Dean Winchester." The voice is scared. Nothing new. He even half expected his name; but the fear isn't enough. Any soul on the wrack sounded far more terrified than that; even the first time. This one sounded... Less. Almost as if it didn't really believe what was going to happen. More than that; as if it _knew_.

He looks up at the voice's owner for the first time.

The eyes are steady, unblinking. "You do not have to choose this."

He almost laughs. Instead he picks up a knife at random. Sometimes it's more fun to do things on the fly. He looks briefly at the form in front of him. Of course souls have no corporeal form, but where's the fun in torturing when there's nothing to cut into, nothing to bleed? So Alastair forces shape to the beings on the wracks. This one is no different.

He's surprised to note that it is male. He never thought of angels as having a gender. But then he supposed if it was a human form then it had to be someone's, and all the humans he knew had a gender. He wonders who's form it is.

Of course that's if it even really is an angel

He briefly toys, trailing the blade as he likes to do, but not receiving the whimper it usually gains him. He doesn't care; it won't be long in coming.

"You will not harm me."

He looks up again, just a flicker of a glance. Others have tried this too. Although this time it sounds almost as if the supposed angel is trying to reassure him, not threaten him.

He decides to start slow, simple and see where his imagination takes him. The tip of the knife presses down, cutting a line along the dip between two ribs.

His eyes raise automatically to the angel's, watching his reaction. Surprise shows clear as day. Dean's fairly sure that it isn't surprise at his actions, but at the sensation, and this puzzles him. Anyone would think he had never felt pain. Again he shrugs it off, thinking that maybe pain wasn't the same for non-corporeal beings. He spreads the blood around with his finger idly, the angel's wide eyes seemingly as surprised at this as the cut, before moving the blade down a rib and starting again, this time keeping his eyes on his work.

At the intake of breath from the angel he looks up again. He's not sure why. He's often observed to himself that torture is a lot like sex, and in the fornication that is destroying a soul, reducing it to a twisted shadow of what it was, this is just the foreplay, a reversal of finding out what your partner likes. At this stage he rarely makes eye contact; in truth his victims usually avoid it until they need their eyes to plead when their voices are too weak; instead working towards the strange intimacy that the process produced by gaining knowledge of their body and fears, but he can't seem to stop looking into those eyes; can't stop watching every reaction to everything he does.

His fingers come up to trace his work, eyes still tethered to the angel's. At the lance of pain that shot through them, his fingers drop a little stroking the skin beneath the cut in an almost comforting gesture. Dean doesn't notice until the angel's mouth opens a little, just a tiny amount but in a way that tells Dean he's feeling something other than pain.

He notices for the first time that Alastair has left. He frowns; he's never been left to his own devices before.

He wonders if this is some kind of test; a trap to see if he would do as he was meant to or release the captivating angel. It wouldn't be beyond Alastair to find a soul that could act well enough to play the part; one that would hold Dean's eye from the beginning and be calm while he played. He knows Dean has always had a problem with the calm ones. No one was calm by the end of course, but when they just took it Dean found himself more reluctant for some reason.

The angel was the perfect test. He was supposedly here to save Dean, he held his gaze, he seemed innocent, he was calm, serene even in the face of the awful thing Dean had become.

Dean cut another line in flesh.

His fingers were soothing away the pain before he had time to think and he frustratedly dug his fingers into the cut, counteracting his own efforts.

This time the angel gasps, struggles against his watering eyes.

Dean's clawing hand instantly flattens, ceasing it's violent activity. He curses, the first words he's uttered for the duration. He turns away, collecting himself, and he can feel the eyes following him, sees the look of innocent curiosity in them when he turns back.

His fingers go back to trace the cuts, to hurt or caress he isn't really sure. "Who are you?" He keeps his voice level, unconcerned. It's a distraction tactic, he needs time to rebalance himself without losing control.

"Castiel." He speaks the work like it should explain everything.

"Castiel." Dean repeats. "That supposed to mean something to me?"

"I am an angel of the Lord." His eyes still haven't left Dean's face.

Dean raises his eyebrows a little. "Of the fallen variety?"

Castiel's face clouds in anger; the first real reaction Dean has got out of him. "Certainly not!"

"Only, looking around, I don't see too many angels." Dean gestures with his hands, turning and searching the landscape to prove his point. "So what are you here for? Get a little bored of clouds and harps? Wanted to take a trip down under to liven things up a little?"

The angel just looks confused.

"You gotta have a reason for dropping by?" Dean notices he was gesturing and allowing his face to assume it's natural expressions. He drops his arms and schools his face even as the angel watches him do it. "Well?"

"We were sent for you." Castiel answers, not entirely sure that's what Dean is asking.

"We?"

"My brethren and I."

"By who?" Dean demands.

"Our father; God." Castiel's face is the picture of puzzlement, as if this was obvious, and thinking about it Dean realises it should have been.

"Why?"

"To retrieve you."

"I got that, but why? Why did He want you to come get me?" Dean asks impatiently.

"It is not for us to question." The look of puzzlement hasn't faded.

Dean is about to say more, but the sight of his teacher returning brings him back to his task. He picks up the knife he didn't notice putting down.

"Where are you 'brethren' now?" He asks, a little mockingly.

"Coming."

Dean makes the next cut.

To his increasing alarm, even with Alastair present he can't bring himself to use any but the most basic cutting techniques; can't prevent his left hand from following his right in careful, soothing strokes. He can tell his teacher is becoming impatient with him and it scares him because he has no choice; it's taking everything for him to press the blade against Castiel's skin at all, to hold the gaze that connects unflinchingly with his own even as the pain builds up, causing the angel's breath to become laboured with effort of not crying out.

He looks down at his hands and they're trembling.

He raises his hands again, spurred on by the demon in the background watching him. For some reason his empty left hand touches down first, and suddenly raising the knife again is no longer an option.

His fingers run lightly along the angel's throat. He doesn't know why this one is affecting him so much; everything he's said is a lie and his eyes are just a trap. He knows this, knows that this is just another soul on the wrack, but he sees something there that no one he's ever known has been able to fake: Trust.

Here he is cutting into the guy, and all the while he's looking back at Dean with complete trust. He doesn't know what to make of this, this blind trust in someone you only met a moment ago, when your first impressions are of them hurting you. It makes no sense.

"Dean." Alastair's voice cuts through, warning and somewhat amused.

He looks up at his name.

"Are you going to continue today's lesson?" The demon asks impassively.

Dean's eyes stray back to Castiel of their own accord. He can't do this, he knows it. But he also knows that if he doesn't someone else will. And that someone could be Alastair. For some reason the thought of the filthy demon laying a hand on Castiel has Dean clenching his jaw and raising the knife again. At least if it's him he can limit the damage. For now.

With no idea why, Dean finds himself hoping that the angel knows why he's doing this, knows what would happen if he didn't.

He continued his work as gently as he could without alerting Alastair; always soothing, his fingers apologising where his voice couldn't. The eye contact never dropped and Castiel never once gave Dean an accusing look. He almost wished he would; wished he would yell and scream because then maybe things would go back to normal. But he doesn't; he just looks Dean in the eye with that nonsensical trust that has Dean crawling away from all the horrors he could inflict; has inflicted.

Dean wishes so hard that Castiel had never appeared in his life... After-life. That way right now he'd be doing the same as usual with the same level of feeling; he'd be carving up another soul, venting everything on it. Instead he's stood trying to ignore what his right hand is doing, trying to telepathically explain to the angel, trying to be what he used to be to justify the apparent faith his victim has in him.

He pauses and notes that Castiel glances worriedly towards Dean's teacher, as if he's as just as worried that the demon might notice his hesitation. He catches the angel's eye again and frowns when Castiel's gaze lowers to the knife before he flicks Dean a reassuring smile. Somehow Dean knows he's telling him to carry on.

Alastair seems to be distracted; no longer watching Dean's strange attempts at a balance with as much consternation or concentration. Dean daren't let up, but he risks more obvious ministrations to the wounded angel, brushing his hair back from his face when one of the cuts was placed in a more tender area and brought water to his eyes or sweat to his forehead, clutching his hand when the pain forced his eyes closed.

If Dean had thought torture was intimate before, this was in a whole other realm. It was almost making love and torturing joined into one. A part of Dean's brain distantly mentions that that is more than a little kinky; but given the circumstances he hardly thought that applied.

When Alastair left, no doubt to attend to whatever was distracting him, Dean almost fell from relief. He put the knife down with a sigh. He knew it was still dangerous to do so but he needed the respite.

"Why?" Dean asks. He knows the angel will know what he means.

"My father would not have sent us to rescue a man who didn't deserve saving." Castiel answers tiredly.

"But you saw what I did, what I _do_." Dean knows he must have seen some of it, every one in the pit seems to have done. Souls he's never seen before cower in front on him, terrified by the same knowledge that Castiel seemed to dismiss.

"You did not do it to me." The answer is calm even through the exhaustion that clouds his tone.

"Not yet." Dean argues.

"This is Hell, Dean. What did you expect when you made that deal?" Castiel asks, a mixture of curiosity and condescension "Did you think it would be just like the monsters you faced in life? A tame round of nail and tooth extractions? There is a reason that souls turn into demons here. You were not the first to break and you will not be the last. What matters is whether you can be fixed."

An amused part of his brain acknowledges that he has been 'fixed' several times during torture, but he doubts Castiel was referring to castration. "And what makes you think I can be?" He asks. He genuinely wants to know, because he himself doesn't truly believe that he can be fixed, so how could anyone else?

"Father says you can be saved." He sees the doubt in Deans face and adds in what he hopes is a softer tone, "And you have done your best to keep me from harm. I believe you can be salvaged."

He is reminded of his own attitude towards his Impala when that truck all but destroyed her. No one could see anything but scrap metal; nothing left worth salvaging, but he had all but rebuilt her and, unless Sam had crashed her, she was now more intact than her owner.

He wondered if Castiel was going to do the same to him. He found he didn't mind the idea at all.

"So, your brothers or brethren or whatever. How long will they be?" He still doesn't really allow himself to hope; he's not that stupid and he has been through that before; but he can't help but ask.

"That depends on how Alastair is doing fending them off." The broken angel replies, then appears to listen for the distant noise of battle.

Since Castiel's arrival Dean hasn't heard any of the battle noise, and he stops a moment to listen with him.

Castiel seems to hear something Dean can't because he says, after a moment, "They shouldn't be long."

They wait in anxious silence and Dean curses himself because he really has started to hope. Something he thought he actually couldn't do any more. But when he looked at the angel in front of him; and he realises now that he had never truly believed Castiel was otherwise; he can't help but believe anything the angel tells him. He almost believes him when he says Dean can be salvaged. Almost.

Eventually even Dean can hear the distant battle, and after a while he can see it across the burnt landscape, fanning out to cover wide stretches in small skirmishes. But he can also see, as it draws ever closer, that Alastair is not among them. Dread settles in with it's sickening heaviness and Castiel, who can't see the battle from his angle, scans his face.

"What is it?" He asks.

Dean can't answer because suddenly he knows it's all been a trick. Alastair never left, and now he will face another year on the wrack, probably with Castiel being tortured alongside him for his softness.

He hears that chuckle which is suddenly more unpleasant than it has ever been, before the demon steps out of the shadows.

"I think we might be winning." He says gleefully.

Dean looks down, tries to close off his face even knowing Alastair already knows everything. Including his weakness for his would be saviour.

Dean looks longingly at the angels, a few of whom have broken out of the battle and begun to ascend on their angelic wings.

He looks at Castiel. Was he well enough to make the trip? Would his injuries carry through to his angelic form? Would releasing him from the wrack even give him back his angelic form.

He thinks a moment and decides it's worth a shot. He picks up the knife again, but this time he slices through two of the angel's restraints. He's reaching for the third when Alastair pulls him back, licking his neck and whispering in his ear that he obviously needs another lesson in loyalty. But Dean hardly notices; willing Castiel to free himself and fly away.

Castiel almost doesn't make it. If it weren't for two fellow angels, gripping him and tearing him from the wrack even as Alastair tried to restrain both him and Dean, he would have been trapped. As it is he is free and testing out his wings, unsure of how his captivity will have affected them.

He glances down at Dean Winchester and knows that he isn't leaving without him. He knows that there will be another attempt, but he isn't sure Dean can wait that long and he doesn't want to find out.

Dean sees the angel plummet, and for a sickening moment he thinks he's injured him too much for flight, but then Castiel is heading directly for him and he knows that Castiel is holding true to his intention of saving Dean.

He shouts out a warning, or at least tries to, it's difficult with a demon smothering him and Castiel wouldn't have listened anyway.

As the angel gets closer and angels approach behind him, Alastair whispers a spell. It doesn't sound like a desperately complex one so Dean hopes that it won't be too hard for the angel to avoid.

Suddenly Castiel's hand is on the top of his arm and he's pulling. Dean feels as though he'll rip in two between the demon and the angel, and he probably looks like one of those hell or Appocolypse paintings of the mortal trapped between good and evil. He's not overly concerned; he's been torn in half before. It was awful but he'd been through worse. But he's worried about whatever spell Alastair has cast as a last resort.

Eventually Castiel wins the tug of war, pulling Dean free from the grip of Hell's chief torturer and turning heavenwards. Dean only y notices the burning when it reaches his own skin. He looks at Castiel's hand on his arm and can tell that it's smoking.

"Uh, Castiel?" He questions, but the angel's mouth is clamped shut against the obvious pain he's feeling. The further up they get, the hotter Castiel's hand burned, until Dean tried to pry himself out of that grip, feeling that Castiel was likely to set on fire at any moment if he didn't let go.

Castiel, however, only tightens his grip.

Dean watched on in alarm as Castiel's wings caught and blackened. "You have to let go!" He orders. If the angel lets go then at least one of them will be able to leave.

There is no response except for a renewed effort from the angel to ascend before his wings are completely useless. The end is in sight, and Castiel knows that if they can only reach it they will be fine.

At the mouth of Hell he falters, feeling his flight abandon him, and he throws himself forward, trusting gravity and his siblings to do the rest.


End file.
